


Wand-Wise: The Next Generation

by Lady_Yvaine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cursed Child doesn't exist, Diagon Alley, Family Feels, Future Fic, Gen, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Harry Potter Next Generation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, My First AO3 Post, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Original Character(s), POV Third Person, Post-Canon, Wandlore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Yvaine/pseuds/Lady_Yvaine
Summary: "Good day! My name is Garrick Ollivander and you are here to purchase your first wand, I take it." Step inside Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC with the children of the next generation. Read along as the children of Harry Potter, Luna Lovegood, Draco Malfoy and many more purchase their first wands.Each chapter is named after, and dedicated to, a character. If you would like to request a particular character from the canon next gen, leave a comment! I am also willing to do OCs-- just ask!





	1. Chapter One: Eloise Dursley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eloise Dursley is chosen by her wand.

Chapter One: Eloise  
Mid August, 2015. 

The cheery tinkling of the silver bell that hung over the shop's door announced the entry of a new customer. A rare smile flashed across the old wandmaker's face as the story of how exactly the bell had come into his possession flitted through his mind like a petal on the summer breeze. She had been so happy the day she had presented him with the lumpy little parcel. The old man's heart squeezed in fond remembrance.

"Come along now, Eloise!" ordered a brisk, but nonetheless exuberant, female voice.

"Coming, mum." A girl, Eloise-he presumed, replied. She had a high, trilling voice, reminiscent of a morning bird's anticipatory chirping. 

 

From where Garrick Ollivander hunched over a stained work table, he could just make out the silhouettes of the four customers who had just entered his shop. It was just after midday and Garrick Ollivander was well past exhaustion, a sensation to which he had become quite accustomed over the last seventeen years. The morning had careened away from him as he worked, painstakingly performing the craft that so ensnared him in its artful grip. Garrick Ollivander was nearly done with his latest creation-a stout, brittle wand of blackthorn and dragon heartstring- when the group entered his well-worn and yet well-loved establishment. Only minutes more and the wand of blackthorn would have been ready to join its brethren upon the crowded shelves. With a great, heaving breath, Ollivander straightened from his work and tugged down the frayed sleeves of his tan robes. 

 

"Mummy, can we visit the owl emporium again? Please?" The chirpy voice rose with the thinly veiled plea. "They were ever so cute. If I got one, I could write to you and father every day. Wouldn't that be lovely?" 

"Oh, Eloise," the woman scoffed in amused exasperation. "Let's sort out your wand first, darling. Then we'll see about a pet, yes?"

He shuffled around the corner that opened out into the main room of his little shop, Ollivander caught the young girl's dejected nod, her large blonde pin curls bobbing against her wobbly chin.

 

"That's a good girl," said a the woman, gingerly patting her daughter on her head so as not to rumple her fastidiously arranged hairdo. 

"Good day," Ollivander called, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he offered the four a welcoming smile. At the sight of the man still standing in the doorway, Ollivander's grin widened, a more earnest tilt to his lips. "Ah, Mr. Potter, I didn't expect to see you here. Your boy already came through with your wife days ago. What a...lively chap he is."

 

Harry smiled ruefully. "I heard." He offered a hand to the old wandmaker. "I planned to take him myself, but something came up at work and James couldn't wait."

Mr. Ollivander tilted his head, "I understand, of course. The life of an auror, I imagine, requires one to live quite...malleably. But let's not dwell on that. Who have you brought in with you today?" Bowing slightly to take in the girl, Ollivander offered her a bony hand. "My name is Garrick Ollivander, dear girl. And you are?"

 

The girl extended a chubby hand toward the old wandmaker. "I'm Eloise-Eloise Dursley." Grasping his hand firmly in her much smaller one, Eloise shook it twice, then released it just as suddenly. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ollivander." 

"Ah," Ollivander's eyes lifted to meet Harry's as he shook out his fingers with a grimace. "A relative of yours, I gather?"

 

At Harry's affirming half-grin, Mr. Ollivander turned back to the remaining two occupants of his narrow shop. "And you must be Eloise's parents." 

"I am her mother," announced the smartly dressed woman. She placed a manicured hand on Eloise's shoulder and offered the other to the stooped wandmaker. "I am Mrs. Martha Dursley." 

 

Straightening, Ollivander shook her hand. "you look very familiar, my dear. Did I, by any chance, place your wand? I cannot seem to recall exactly. How strange..." He trailed off, thick brows furrowed as he muttered incoherently under his breath for many uncomfortable seconds.

"Certainly not," asserted the blond-haired man who stood an arm's width away from Harry Potter, his beefy arms tucked tight against his sides. "My wife isn't a- a wizard."

"No, I don't think so, sir," she agreed neatly. "You're probably thinking of my sisters--Elizabeth and Estelle Cartwright. I'm the third Cartwright sister. The squib. You won't remember me." 

 

Her surly husband blinked in confusion. "The what?"

 

"Squib," Harry repeated without even so much as glancing in his cousin's direction. "If a wizard and witch bear a child who cannot produce magic, the child is called a squib. Martha is a squib," Harry clarified, his tone pragmatic.

At her husband's paling complexion, Martha Dursley winced. "Sorry, dear. I forget how new you are to all of this." She turned an abashed smile on Mr. Ollivander's direction. "You would think, with the famous Harry Potter for a cousin, my husband would know a thing or two about the Wizarding world. But he knows even less than I do and I was raised by my muggle grandparents. Do forgive us, Mr. Ollivander."

To his credit, Garrick Ollivander's smile did not falter for a moment during the entire exchange. "Not at all, madam. Not at all. As a matter of fact, I do remember your sisters. You look very like them, I must say. I recall the day I first met each of your parents as well. Estelle's wand was especially lovely. Ten and a half inches of applewood and uni-"

"Yes," Martha Dursley interrupted with a tight, impatient smile. "She carries it still. But today we are here to find Eloise's wand." With a covert shove between the girl's shoulders, Martha sent her daughter forward to stand before the wizened wandmaker.

 

"Yes, of course," Ollivander pulled free of his musings to assess the rosy-cheeked girl before him. "What an interesting case you are, Eloise." With an expert wave of his wand, a long bit of measuring tape soared from the counter and came to rest at Ollivander's side, awaiting orders. After another quick movement, the practiced wandmaker had Eloise's measurements. 

 

Pink cheeks dimpling, Eloise glanced at her patent leather shoes as the whiplike measuring tape whizzed around her, "Am I, really?" Blue sparks bloomed and fizzled atop her fingertips. She wiggled her fingers. 

 

"Indeed, my dear. Your case is quite odd, I must confess," Mr. Ollivander informed her as he quickly scanned the untidy shelves of his shop. "Your mother comes from an established Wizarding family and your father is the only cousin of the great Harry Potter. Though both your parents possess no substantial magic of their own, you, young Eloise, are indeed a witch." He spared a glance at her still faintly sparking fingers.

 

"Oh, is that all," Eloise muttered, her face flushed. With a few tugs at her sleeves, Eloise's fingers were hidden by the mauve wool of her loose jumper.

 

"Not to worry," Ollivander soothed absentmindedly as he slid a box off of the tallest shelf along the back wall. "Here we are." After placing the dusty box upon the scratched countertop, Mr. Ollivander carefully removed a narrow, cylindrical object and presented it to Eloise. "Go on and give it a flick. There's a good girl."

Without further prompting, Eloise accepted the wand from Mr. Ollivander, gazing raptly as it rolled between her fingers. "What's it made of, sir? James-he's my cousin, you know-told me all about wands just last week. His, he says, has the heartstring of a dragon as its core. Is that true, or was he simply exaggerating again? I like him well enough, but he has a habit of stretching the truth." Her wide, light blue eyes stared up at him with unbridled curiosity and more than a dash of trepidation.

 

The warm laugh that crackled in his chest surprised Mr. Ollivander, himself. "He spoke the truth, Miss Dursley. James' wand does, in fact, contain the heartstring of a dragon." 

 

Stuttering, Dudley Dursley suddenly slumped against the rickety chair rucked away into the farthest corner of Ollivander's shop. "Dr-dragon heartstrings, did you say?"

"Oh, calm down, Dudley, darling," Martha Dursley advised her husband--not unaffectionately, as she gazed at her daughter, who was cautiously waving the wand clutched in her right hand.

 

"But dragons, Martha," his lower lip quivered, his eyes blinking rapidly as if to clear away the peculiar sight before him. 

 

From the tip of the wand, an anticlimactic puff of thin, black smoke burst free, the smell not unlike that of sunbaked tar. "Oh, no!" Eloise gasped, hurriedly returning the wand to its box and backing away. 

Martha clicked her tongue, "yes, I know, Dudley. It's a lot to take in, isn't it? But one would assume you knew more about all of this. After all, you are Harry Potter's cousin." The knob-like brass buttons of her austere suit glinted in the dim lighting as she turned to face her daughter once again. "Try another one, sweetie."

"So?" Dudley's breathing had increased in volume and speed over the last few minutes. His pudgy face was a ruddy shade of puce. "What's that got to do with it?" 

"Your blood pressure, dear," reminded Martha chidingly. "Oh, that one is quite the odd picture." Martha wrinkled her nose at the greyish-brown wand Ollivander had just placed in her daughter's hand. 

 

Dudley nodded stiffly as he mopped at the sweat gleaming on his forehead. 

 

Harry, who leaned against the pane of the shop window with his arms folded over his chest, wore a satisfied half-smile. "All right there, Big D?" 

"All right?" Dudley croaked, his eyes squinted incredulously at the image of his youngest daughter waving the greyish stick of wood at a clay vase of wilted daisies. "Of course I'm not bloody all right! I've just learnt about the existence of dragons, now haven't I?" 

Harry raised a brow. "Well, there's more where that came from." His chuckle was low. Relishing the stupefied expression on his cousin's face, Harry took his time as he continued. "Unicorns, trolls. Werewolves, ghosts--all real. Oh," Harry slapped a hand against his knee as if remembering a fond memory, "and don't forget about the Dementors. There's a great deal of them wandering around, too, now that the ministry's cut them loose." 

"All right, all right," Dudley wheezed, eyes bloodshot with horror. "I get the idea, Potter."

 

"You sure?" Asked Harry, his green eyes lit with barely disguised mirth at his cousin's expense. "As an auror, it's up to me to know all about these sorts of things. I could tell you a horrifying story about a trio of vampires, a decapitated troll, and a few infer-" 

 

"I've heard enough!" Dudley growled, his shaking palms raised as if to ward off the beasts of which his cousin spoke.

"If you're sure," Harry chuckled, relaxing back against the window, content to watch his only cousin as he attempted to reclaim his composure. 

 

"Try this one," Mr. Ollivander pressed a short, sturdy wand into Eloise's plump hand. 

 

Running her thumb along the raised runic markings that decorated the instrument she held, Eloise marveled at the proof of Ollivander's superb craftsmanship. "It's very pretty," she cooed, transfixed by the warm honeyed gold of the wand's wood as it captured the thin light thrown by the sole lantern above her.

Beaming proudly, Ollivander stepped away from the girl. "It is at that," he agreed. "Now, give it a wave, Eloise. I have a good feeling about this one."

Eloise returned his smile, hers more sheepish. "I do, too." With a gentle flick of her wrist, Eloise sent the tip of the wand up in a sharp arc.

"Oh, how marvelous!" Martha Dursley clapped excitedly. 

 

A streak of radiant yellow sunbursts shot out of the wand's rounded tip, hanging in the air before Eloise. "I did that," Eloise whispered in awe, her eyes bright as the light drifted across her face, painting it in shades of sunshine. 

 

"Eight and a third inches of pear and unicorn hair. Quite swishy. Wonderful." 

 

Mr. Ollivander's proclamation recaptured Eloise's attention. "Is that a good combination to have? I'm not complaining," she was quick to assure him. "It's just that, well, James also told me that a wand says quite a lot about its master. So, well-what exactly does my wand say about me, Mr. Ollivander?"

The old man's expression softened at her anxious inquiry. He rested a tender hand upon Eloise's wand arm and gently uncurled her fingers from around her wand. Balancing the instrument between both index fingers, the practiced wandmaker took his creation's measure with his keen gaze. "This was crafted from the highest quality pear wood-- as with all of my stock. Its length, while below average, is perfect in that it suits a modest witch with, from what I have gathered, abundant skills and a buoyant personality that does not crave effusive adornments. Wood of pear is most suited to witches and wizards who've a generous heart and canny mind. You should be very proud," he added with a wink. 

Dimples reappearing, Eloise watched in mesmerized silence as Mr. Ollivander tucked her wand back into its box and laid it in her her extended hands. 

 

"How nice," Martha cooed as she approached the counter, a small pouch of gold coins already balanced on her palm. After counting out the correct amount, Martha Dursley returned the remaining coins to the small purse and turned to her husband and his famous cousin. "Are we ready to be off, you lot?" Martha asked with an airy toss of her hair. 

 

The assenting grunts and grumbles that followed seemed to satisfy her; she advanced toward the shop's door. Before reaching it, Martha turned back to Mr. Ollivander. "Thank you for your time, sir. Say thank you to Mr. Ollivander, Eloise." 

 

"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. I won't forget this, I promise." The plump, jolly girl shook the shopkeeper's hand once more before following her mother out of the shop. 

Wincing at Eloise's firm handshake for the second time, Garrick Ollivander waved the family away. "And I'll be seeing you again before I know it, Mr. Potter."

Harry, who had straightened, preparing to follow the trio, tipped his head. "That, you will, sir." Something poignant seemed to pass between them-- a ghost of a memory, perhaps. A dank basement and the deafening screams of a crazed madwoman hung between them, unacknowledged. 

 

His pale eyes gone dark with distant agony, Mr. Ollivander simply shooed Harry away when the other man would have stepped forward. "Off with you now, Mr. Potter. I have work to do. Off with you, I said." 

 

"Right," Harry said, his eyes averted. "See you then, Mr. Ollivander." Harry Potter exited the shop of the finest wandmaker in all of Britain while its proprietor gazed on after him, a profound sorrow settling in his silver eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, reader.
> 
> Do you like Eloise? I must say I quite like her. She's unlike her parents and grandparents and I think that's one of her best qualities: Eloise is uniquely her own. 
> 
> Stay tuned for Teddy'a chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Until then!


	2. Chapter Two: Teddy Lupin

Chapter Two: Teddy   
Late August, 2009. 

 

Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the dust-caked window, streaking ribbons of faintest gold across the pinched faces of the latest customers to enter Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. Sagging wooden shelves creaked in the summer heat, threatening to bend beneath their burden, and Mr. Ollivander did not blame them. The day had begun well enough. A silvery mist glided along the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, bringing with it a crisp chill that foretold autumn's inevitable arrival. But, as the sun crept higher in the sky, the refreshing fog burned off, leaving only a sweltering heat in its wake. 

 

For the third time in the past hour, Garrick Ollivander plastered upon his face a smile most charming and, if he was honest, most false. Mopping at his glistening forehead with the stained sleeve of his robes, Mr. Ollivander dipped his head, cupping his hand to accept the small tower of galleons stacked in his customer's hand. "Thank you, madam Morgan."

 

The woman sniffed, her chin lifting as she plopped the coins down on the pockmarked countertop with a pointed clink. "My pleasure." Her smile was as thin and feigned as his own. She produced a handkerchief and wiped at her unblemished, pale hands. "A pleasure, as always, Mr. Ollivander." 

Mr. Ollivander's smile tightened further, but he made no remark as he counted the stack of coins before tucking them into a side pocket. 

"Can we go now, mummy?" piped up Madam Morgan's raven-haired daughter. "I'm bored." She crossed her arms over her chest, pink mouth twisted into a sour frown. 

"Of course, Rowen, dear." Madam Morgan snatched up the long, rectangular box Mr. Ollivander extended to her and presented it to her eldest child, the one who had spoken only moments before. 

"Could we go visit the bookstore next, mum? I've been hoping to have a look at Luna Scamander's latest book. It's about-"

"Hold your tongue, Evangeline," snapped Madam Morgan, frowning at her second, much smaller daughter. "Today is devoted to Rowen- not you. She leaves for Hogwarts in less than a week and we've only just begun to shop for her. Don't be selfish."

 

"Yes, Evie, you mustn't be selfish," Rowen sneered, pinning her younger sister with a glare as she flicked a glossy, black curl over one shoulder. 

 

"Sorry, Ro," mumbled Evangeline. Her large indigo-blue eyes, the exact shade as her sister's, cast downward at her shuffling feet. 

 

"Mummy!" Rowen whined, "it's getting late and I still want to go by Sugarplum's and then to Twilfitf and Tattings for a new cloak. Mummy," Rowen's unusual eyes gleamed, "did you see their display today? The cloak in the window is perfect for me. It's made from the most exquisite white velvet. Oh, and the hem," Rowen was practically purring. "It's lined in the softest-looking dove grey fur- ermine, I think, Anyway, I want it! Let's go already!" 

 

Madam Morgan tucked her handkerchief back into the tiny pocket at her breast. "Quite right, Rowen. Good day, Mr. Ollivander." She was already striding toward the door when it opened, the silver bell above the entrance tinkling cheerily. "Excuse me!" Madam Morgan's blue eyes narrowed scornfully as she stepped aside to admit the newcomers. 

 

"Welcome, welcome!" Mr. Ollivander called without turning. "I'll be with you in a moment." He disappeared behind the partition that divided his shop from his workroom and slid open the loose wall panel hidden amongst the others. With a flick of his wand, Ollivander began the complicated enchantment that protected the safe from unsavory attentions. 

 

"Not a problem," replied a soft, subdued female voice. 

 

"Good day, Madam Black." Madam Morgan's voice was raised, much higher and sickly sweet, dripping with saccharine cordiality and poorly disguised disdain. 

"Tonks," the other woman corrected tersely. "My name is Mrs. Tonks. Hello, Elena. How are you? Are these your girls? I believe your eldest is about the same age as my grandson." 

"Your grandson?" Madam Morgan clicked her tongue, "ah, the werewolf's boy. Yes, I remember now." 

"And an Auror's son, as well," Someone new had spoken: a young boy, by the sound of the voice. 

"Teddy!" Mrs. Tonks hissed. "Apologize." 

"I won't," the boy, Teddy, retorted flatly. 

"Hmph!" Madam Morgan scoffed and Mr. Ollivander could only just discern the brush of her cloak against the wood flooring of his shop. "Come along, girls!" After a moment, the door to his shop slammed, the bell above jingling erratically as it rocked against its mooring. Another, much quieter, pair of feet followed behind hers. The shop's door opened, then was shut softly. 

"In so sorry about my mother." There was a brief pause. "My name's Rowen. I suppose we'll be seeing each other quite soon." 

"Will we?" Teddy asked, clearly disinterested. 

"I'll see you on the train come September 1st. For Hogwarts, you know," Rowen's voice dropped into a whisper, her words indistinguishable. 

"All right." Teddy's reply carried a new lilt to it, as if he were attempting to hold back a laugh. "Yeah, I'll save you a seat then." 

 

"Good. See you, Teddy." Quick feet hastened across the old, creaky floorboards. The door opened once more, then shut with a bang. 

 

"You know better," Mrs. Tonks scolded softly. "You must be polite, even when others do not deserve your respect." 

 

"No one insults my parents in front of me, grandmother. No one. I won't have it." Teddy's voice was firm and cold, very unlike that of many children his age-but very like his godfather. 

 

Andromeda Tonks opened her mouth to respond, but Mr. Ollivsnder chose that moment to turn the corner. 

Mr. Ollivander caught her eye as he turned the corner and offered a sympathetic smile. "Apologies for the wait, Mrs. Tonks."

"Not a problem," she repeated, though her face was tight and her fingers strained as she gripped her wand. "Madam Morgan and I were just catching up."

 

"Ha!" Teddy snorted. "What a witch!" 

"Teddy!" 

"Oh, dear me, young man. I'm so sorry. Allow me to introduce myself." Tilting his head, the old wandmaker took in the son of Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks for the first time. "I am Garrick Ollivander, the proprietor of this fine establishment. A pleasure to meet you." 

 

Teddy, who leaned a shoulder against the filthy counter, tipped his chin in greeting. "Cheers, Mr. Ollivander. I'm Teddy Lupin. My godfather says you're the best wandmaker in the world." 

 

Chuckling, Ollivander said "well, I'm flattered. Your godfather is, if I'm not mistaken, the famous Harry Potter."

Teddy broke into a proud grin. "Yeah, that's right, sir." Smile dimming a fraction, Teddy added "he wanted to come along, but my grandmother wanted it to be just the two of us." He shrugged. 

"I wanted it to be special," Mrs. Tonks supplied, folding her hands before her. "Just us." 

"It would've been just as special with the three of us," Teddy countered.

"Harry agreed with me that you and I should-"

"Whatever," grumbled Teddy. "Can I try out swans now?" 

Andromeda Tonks, eyes wide and wounded, cleared her throat. "Of course. Mr. Ollivander, would you mind?" 

"Certainly, madam. If you would please extend your wand arm, Mr. Lupin." Ollivander clapped his hands. A yellowing length of measuring tape snapped to attention, flying over to them. "Let us measure," he murmured more to himself than to either of his customers. "Interesting. Ah, I have just the one!" At his commanding gesture, a uniformly rectangular box tipped off of the topmost shelf and whizzed toward Mr. Ollivander's raised hands. "We'll try this one first. It was crafted from the finest hazel wood with a unicorn hair at its core. Go on then!" 

Teddy accepted the rather diminutive wand from the older man. With a roll of his wrist, Teddy sent the aged wandmaker flying backward. 

Thud!

Mr. Ollivander's back slammed into the shelves. "Oof!" 

 

"Oh, my!" Andromeda Tonks gasped, hurrying over to assist him. "Are you all right, Mr. Ollivander? Can you stand?" 

 

"I'm fine. Completely fine. Not to worry, madam." Ollivander got heavily to his feet, wincing at the pain that throbbed at the back of his skull. Glancing at Teddy, he mused wryly "I don't think we've found your wand, Mr. Lupin." 

"I suppose not, sir," Teddy mumbled, his lime green eyes thrown wide. With wary precision, Teddy returned the offending wand to its box and backed away. 

"We shall try again. How about this one?" Mr. Ollivander selected another nondescript box from a low shelf and lifted the lid. "Cypress and dragon heartstring, a temperamental beauty, this one. Ten inches exactly. The same wood as your father's wand, you know." He laid the wand into Teddy's outstretched hand. 

 

His eyes darkening with newfound hesitance, Teddy adjusted his grip on the unfamiliar wand. "Where should I aim, Mr. Ollivander?"

"Just there." The old wandmaker indicated a stack of books piled beside the window sill. "Try to levitate them."

 

Brows furrowed in concentration, Teddy flicked his wrist in a swift, circular motion. 

 

Vibrant blue flames sprang to violent life atop the stack. Lavender smoke crawled up the walls, cooling in the room by more than a few degrees. Ice crystals danced in the air. 

 

"Oh, Teddy!" Huffing, Andromeda Tonks retrieved her wand from the sleeve of her dark blue cloak and deftly extinguished the peculiar blaze her grandson had conjured. 

"Blimey!" Teddy broke into a grin and reclaimed his place against the counter. "That was wicked. Did you see, grandmother? Did you see what I made?" 

 

Dryly, Mrs. Tonks answered with a restrained "Indeed, I did, Teddy." 

"I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to continue to hold onto that wand." Mr. Ollivander plucked the instrument from Teddy's reluctant clutches and returned it to the shelf from whence it came. 

"A Shame," Teddy sighed dramatically, turning a cheeky grin on his grandmother, who rolled her eyes, though she failed to conceal the fond smile she wore. 

 

For the next hour and half, Teddy tested his luck with more than half a dozen wands of varying lengths, cores, and woods-- none of which Mr. Ollivander deemed suitable. "You will know it when you find it, Mr. Lupin', the expert wandmaker repeated again and again. But as the day wore on and Teddy's shoulders dropped farther and farther, Mr. Ollivander started to question his own surety. 

 

The lopsided clock that rested against the partition dividing his shop bonged, chiming six o'clock, 

 

Andromeda Tonks cleared her throat for a second time. "One more wand, Teddy." When her grandson would've protested, Andromeda lifted a quelling hand, forestalling his balking. "No, Teddy, listen to me. It's nearly time for supper and we've only just started your school shopping. You may try one more wand and then that's it for today."

"But grandmother, please!" Teddy complained.

"Please do not argue with me." She rubbed the balls of her hands against her closed eyes. "One more. Now hurry up, please." She had the grace to flash Mr. Ollivander an apologetic, strained smile. "We'll return tomorrow." 

"Fine," Teddy grumbled. 

 

Andromeda Tonks placed a gentle hand upon her grandson's shoulder. "I promise you this: we will find you a wand, Teddy. That is, unless," her voice grew soft, tentative, as if any jarring noise would awaken a slumbering beast, "you've changed your mind about using your mother's-"

 

"No!" Teddy managed to say between gritted teeth. "No, thank you. I want a wand of my own." As if unaware he was doing so, Teddy lifted a hand and ran his fingertips along the thick clump of bubblegum pink that stood out against the sedate dark blond. 

"Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-" Andromeda placed a trembling hand atop his hand, the fingers of which were still tangled in the violent pink strands. 

"It's nothing." Teddy slid his hand from beneath hers and twisted on his heels to face Mr. Ollivsnder. Cat-footed and nimble as he was, Teddy placed himself more than a foot out of his grandmother's reach. 

Andromeda Tonks swallowed and lowered her gaze, saying nothing as her only grandchild grasped the wand Mr. Ollivander lifted from the depths of another uniform box. 

"I admit that I am finding you quite difficult to place," Ollivsnder knit his grey brows. "But never fear: I will find your match, young Lupin. Not unlike your father, I gather you'll be chosen by a wand with rather-uh, unique traits. Your mother, the spirited Nymphadora Tonks, was sorted out in a trice. But I spent nearly an entire morning with your father. We discovered his wand in the end, though it took quite a few trials. Nearly flooded my store at one point," Mr. Ollivander chuckled, nodding at the bedraggled wooden stool tucked uselessly beside the counter. "But enough out of me, go ahead and give it a wave, if you please."

 

"My father had trouble finding his wand, too?" Teddy peered up at Mr. Ollivander as if the old man possessed the missing key to an unopened box of treasures for which Teddy had searched his entire life. 

"Indeed." Mr. Ollivander's smile was weak, but not forced. "He became quite frustrated halfway through the ordeal, though he tried his best to remain calm and collected. The poor fellow was understandably nervous." 

 

"Harry says I'm like him-- that I have," he glanced at his tight-lipped grandmother before continuing, "his-his heart." 

Ollivander nodded, "I can see that, my boy. I distinguish Mr. Potter's influence on you as well. A potent combination." 

"It's getting late," Andromeda Tonks interrupted, her eyes fixed on the shop door. 

 

"Ah, so it is. Mr. Lupin, if you would," Mr. Ollivander gestured to the wand still clutched in Teddy's hand.

 

Face set in deep, determined lines, Teddy sucked in a loud breath as he tapped the tip of the wand against the crumbling wooden seat of the inutile stool. Color rose high in his face, warming his cheeks as he exhaled. The tiny, dingy shop exploded with light, a blinding flash of brightest cerulean. Teddy jumped back, though he managed to keep a firm grip on the wand in his hand. Where once cowered a dilapidated, water-damaged stool, now was something altogether quite intriguing and almost comical: a stool of lime green, the varnish of its smooth seat gleaming in the dying light of the sun, bore little resemblance to the one Teddy's father had destroyed decades earlier. 

 

"Well, now, what a grand display, my boy!" Mr. Ollivander lowered the hand that shielded his eyes and approached Teddy. His eyes focused solely on what Teddy still held in his hand. "A dynamic wand for a dynamic young wizard. It seems Mr. Lupin has found his wand at last. Though both you and your wand appear to be quite changeable and spontaneous, your principles and resolve shall unite you, I believe. This wand, ten and a half inches of Hornbeam and Phoenix feather, is as unique as you are-- just as I predicted, I might add." Beaming, Mr. Ollivander nodded for Teddy to return his wand to its box--a silent request with which the boy complied, however reluctantly. "The Phoenix feather ought to render it difficult to personalize; however, the hornbeam ought to counter that little hiccup." Rubbing his hands together in ecstatic pleasure, the wandmaker continued "a wand of Hornbeam is not at all suited to the indecisive, nor to those bereft of profound ambition. Instead, such a wand seeks in its master the keen yearning to realize a deeply ensconced vision. I take it you have such a vision, young Lupin?"

 

Teddy set his small shoulders. His eyes, which were glowing the red-gold of a crackling fire- or, just maybe, the tawny, feral gaze of a wolf- did not drift from Mr. Ollivander's face as he spoke. "I want to honor my family's legacy. Their sacrifices. I want to make my parents proud." 

 

Brows lifting at the boy's nerve and bravado, Mr. Ollivander simply murmured "ah. I hope you do, my boy. I sincerely hope you do." 

"Here you are, sir." The welcome sound of jingling coins followed Andromeda's polite words. 

 

Mr. Ollivander's gaze lifted to Teddy's grandmother, who pressed a neat column of galleons into his lined and calloused palm. "I thank you, Mrs. Tonks." He proceeded to discreetly count his payment, then tuck it into a side pocket. 

 

"Time to go, Teddy. Say good evening to Mr. Ollivander." Andromeda Tonks lifted the hem of her dark blue cloak and strode to the shop's door. 

"Good evening, sir."

Mr. Ollivsnder waved him off. "And good evening to you, Teddy."

Andromeda Tonks beckoned to her grandson. "Come along. Let's go find you something to eat, shall we?"

Teddy made to do as he was bid, but turned back at this last moment. His eyes, now light green, stopped on the old wandmaker. "And thank you-- for telling me about my parents. No one really likes to talk about them much." 

 

"Is that so?" 

"Harry's told me a few stories, but he always gets that look."

"A look, my boy? What sort of look?" 

 

"A distant sort of look, like he isn't really there with me, even as he sits right beside me. And the things he's told me about them-- well, I'll never really be able to understand them-- who they were, at least, not completely. I'll never know them unless it's through the eyes of someone else. Sometimes, i don't feel like they belong to me- or that I ever belonged to them." Teddy shrugged, as if none of it mattered, but Mr. Ollivsnder knew better. 

 

"You are Nymphadora and Remus' son through and through, Teddy Lupin. Never doubt that" was all the weary shop proprietor could manage before the boy with the pink streak in his blond hair darted through the door and into the night, his white-faced grandmother quick on his heels. 

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter. It details, as you probably gathered, Mr. Ollivander's experience with matching Teddy Lupin with his wand. I hope you enjoyed my interpretation of the pairing of Teddy's wand wood and core. I try my very hardest not to pull straight from the Pottermore explanation. I aim to describe what JK Rowling implies, rather than what she has clearly written in regards to wand cores and woods. 
> 
> I'm curious to hear your thoughts regarding my portrayal of Teddy, his grandmother, and Mr. Ollivsnder. 
> 
> What do you think Rowen Morgan whispered to Teddy? 
> 
> Please leave comments for me to read. I adore them and I can't improve my craft without your criticism and/or praise. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.   
> Until next time!
> 
> \- Luna


	3. Chapter Three: Victoire Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Victoire Weasley is chosen by her wand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, reader! 
> 
>  
> 
> Before you begin, I'd like to offer a few heads up.  
> I'm aware that the overdone French accent is irritating in written fiction, so I've minimized it as much as I was willing-- just know that Fleur is, as always, French.  
> I would also like to ask that you pay attention to every exchange here. Some of the tidbits we learn in this story will be revisited later. 
> 
> And that's about it!  
> Enjoy!

Chapter Three: Victoire  
Early August, 2011

 

Boom!

The slender boxes lining the scarred walls of Mr. Ollivander’s shop quivered on their shelves as yet another clap of thunder echoed in the deserted streets of Diagon Alley. Icy rain drummed against his shop’s dingy windows, streaking a grimy mixture of dust, splinters of old paint-coated wood, and flakes of rust along their surface. Shadows swallowed the space, giving way to the gloom beyond Ollivander’s door. Every source of light within the shop’s confines, save one, had been snuffed out. Flickering feebly, the lantern that hung just above his cluttered work table whined as it swung on its peg, the fledgling flame inside dancing frantically. But he paid it no mind as he adjusted the length of his latest creation with a long, practiced scrape of his whittling knife. Slivers of rich, warm wood fell away, revealing the smooth, Red Oak instrument, newly minted and ready for its master’s grasp. 

Mr. Ollivander had just turned from the shelf upon which that same Red Oak wand now rested, settled in its very own black Ollivander’s box, when the incongruous little bell above the door gave an airy tinkle. He straightened, affecting a welcoming smile, before turning to greet the first customers to enter his establishment in two days. He recognized them almost immediately. The woman, her pristine white shoes clicking against the bloated, damp planks, wore a pen expression of mild alarm as she assessed her surroundings. Deep blue eyes, silvery blonde hair, and sharp, elegant features-- Fleur was still a terrible beauty, even now, well into adulthood, with three children and a demanding career at Gringotts. 

“Welcome, welcome.” Mr. Ollivander ushered Mrs. Fleur Weasley and her children inside, firmly shutting the door at their backs. “It is always such a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Weasley.” 

Fleur schooled her expression, adopting a demure curve to her lips. “Bonjour, Monsieur Ollivander. You are very kind to say such things. But you must call me Fleur. My mozzer in-law is Mrs. Weasley-- not I.” She placed a hand between each of her children’s shoulders, gently pressing them forward. “Meet my children: my eldest, Victoire,” Fleur nodded at the taller of the two, Fleur in miniature, just as her aunt was before her. Very little of the Weasley line was evident in this girl, though Mr. Ollivander thought he caught a vague impression of her father in the confident steel of her spine; and her eyes, pale and arresting, were the exact shade of blue as her father’s. “And my youngest, Louis,” Fleur finished, her expression melting into soft, joyous lines as she gazed at the frail, blond-haired cherub who returned her wide smile with an equally adoring one of his own. 

“And how lovely they are,” Mr. Ollivander proclaimed, “very like their mother, I see. But wait,” his bushy, grey brows lifted. “Is there not a third? Where is your other daughter, Madame?” 

“Ooh, you mean Dominique,” Fleur spat. “So very naughty, zat one.” Her accent grew thicker as her temper flared, her eyes narrowing to irate slits. “She doused her sister’s new school robes in salt water yesterday afternoon, so I left her at ‘ome wiz my muzzer in-law.”

“Alas, what a shame,” he lamented with a dip of his head. “I was so hoping to meet all three of your children, Madame. I shall simply have to wait until Miss Dominique comes to collect her wand in a few years.” 

“The year after next,” Fleur informed him. She closed her umbrella with a decisive snap. 

“So soon? Well, they do grow up so quickly, don't they?” He scratched at the stubble along his chin. “My eldest grandchild will be starting at Hogwarts around that time, as a matter of fact. My son is a nervous wreck, of course. He has three daughters,” he announced, his silver eyes widening comically. “And a son, too. But it's no secret that those three little girls run his home.” 

Louis and Victoire giggled, covering their mouths with their hands.

“You'd think he would be eager to send one of them off to school. But no, Gawain wrings his hands every time a Hogwarts student passes through the sjop.” Mr. Ollivander shook his head, still smiling. “Poor man.” 

“And where is your son today, Monsieur? I have not seen him in many months.” Fleur strode to one of the windows, pausing to squint at the street beyond, then set her dripping umbrella against its pane to dry. 

“Gawain is working out of our Hogsmeade location this week,” he said. “My associate there is getting on in years and could use the assistance. And my son is just the man for the job. I swear his skills will someday surpass my own. Makes me prouder every day.” 

Placing a hand on her daughter’s arm, Fleur nodded. “I know what you mean, Monsieur Ollivander.” 

Fleur and Mr. Ollivander shared a brief, but warm smile. 

“Maman,” interrupted Louis, his small, upturned nose scrunched. “Is this what great-grwndfather’s shop is like?” 

Fleur clicked her tongue. “No, I think not, mon ange. Besides, his boutique closed many years ago, after he retired.” 

Deep furrows curled across the old wandmaker’s forehead. “Beg pardon, Madame?”

“Oh,” Fleur laughed, pink tinging her cheeks. “Excuse moi, Monsieur. My grandfazzer was a wandmaker as well. Benedict Bergeron. His family were the most acclaimed wandmakers in France for a time. Very famous. Very skilled craftsmen.” She jut out her chin proudly, shoulders straight and eyes burning. 

“Indeed, I know of him,” he replied, crossing his arms across his chest. “A very… adventurous wandmaker.”

“ Revolutionary,” Fleur agreed. She turned to her daughter. “Are you certain you do not wish for your great-grandfazzer to make your wand? I'm sure he would not mind. My own wand was finished in less than a week. No offense to you, Monsieur,” she added, waving apologetically to Mr. Ollivander, who nodded and offered a tight-lipped smile in return. 

“No, thank you, maman,” said Victoire primly. “I want an Ollivander’s original, just like papa and aunt Hermione have, si’l vous plait.” 

“As you say, Victoire, you shall have it. I cannot say no to ma étoile, now can I?” Fleur tenderly stroked her daughter’s silvery-blonde hair, smiling down at her. 

Stepping forward with a slight bow of gratitude, Mr. Ollivander set his gaze on Victoire. “I shall endeavor to not disappoint, Miss Weasley. Shall we begin?” At her firm nod, he clapped his hands, summoning the roll of measuring tape from where it rested atop the pocked countertop. “If you could please extend your wand arm, my dear.” 

Victoire thrust out her right arm, remaining perfectly still as the measuring tape whizzed around her body, going about the task it was set. 

When it had finished, Mr. Ollivander clapped his hands once more and, with a wave of his wand, it settled back onto the counter from whence it had been summoned. “Right, well, now that's done. I believe I know just the one.” Without so much as another word, Mr. Ollivander shuffled over to a nearby shelf, plucked an indiscriminant black box from amongst its fellows, then presented it to Victoire. “Here we are: Ash and Phoenix feather, decidedly pliant. Go on then.” He turned the handle of the Ash wand toward her, his silver eyes sparkling and eager. 

Head held high, Victoire accepted the proffered Ash and Phoenix feather wand and, without any hesitation, swirled her wrist in a clockwise motion, aiming for the sodden floorboards at her feet. 

“Oh, no!” Fleur exclaimed, wrinkling her nose and drawing away. “How disgusting!” 

The puddle of stagnant rainwater at Victoire’s feet, once tepid and dull brown, was now a ghastly olive green hue. Clouds of stench rose from the swampy mess, mingling nauseatingly with the dank atmosphere of Ollivander’s shop. 

“This is not the wand for me, Monsieur,” Victoire said with a half-smile as she returned the wand to its box. “Might I try something else? Perhaps something with less of a… noxious flair.”

“Uh, certainly,” replied Mr. Ollivander. “But first,” with a practiced flick, the greenish puddle of pungent liquid was once again merely rainwater, leaving the shop mundane and musty-- just how he preferred it. “That's better. Now where were we? Ah, a different wand. Yes, hmm...” Fingers brushing rhythmically along the rows upon rows of stacked boxes that dominated the cramped room, Mr. Ollivander murmured to himself, reciting all he knew of wand woods and their cores. But a lack of knowledge pertaining to wandlore was not his problem. No, he must focus on the witch, herself. What wand would best suit a witch who was as unique as she was self-possessed and decisive? Then he had it--- the wand to offer such a witch was simple: “13 and one-third inches of Elm and unicorn hair,” Mr. Ollivander announced, snagging another black box off of a dusty shelf. “This masterpiece of mine with be the one, I'm sure of it.” 

“C’est elegant,” cooed Fleur, learning forward on the tips of her pointy, white heels in order to gaze into the box the old wandmaker cradled in his weathered hands. 

“Truly,” agreed Mr. Ollivander, pride evident in his tone. 

Spiraling out from the wand’s pointed tip and encircling its length was a slender ribbon of intricately carved Fleur de lis. Victoire stroked the raised adornments with the flat of her first finger, her breath catching as she carefully freed the wand of elm and unicorn hair from its box. Amber in color, it burned radiant gold in the sunlight peaking through the bank of drab grey clouds only just visible beyond the shop’s windows. 

“Don't just stand there. Try it out, mon petit,” encouraged Fleur, gesturing between her daughter and the wand balanced in Victoire’s right hand. 

“Of course, maman.” But Victoire hesitated, her arm paused in mid air, the elm wand poised loftily between her thumb and first two fingers. Sparing a quick glance for her mother, Victoire simply said “I want this wand to be mine, Maman.”  
Victoire gave the wand a swift, precise flourish. From its pointed tip shot streamers of cobalt and gold, sparkling and electric in their ecstatic intensity. Jumping back with a squeak, Victoire slowly lowered her arm to her side. Blue eyes wide and gleaming, the young witch marveled at her accomplishment, unabashed with pride as she took in the dazzling spectacle she had conjured. 

“Je n’en crois pas mes yeux!” Fleur praised, clapping her hands in amazed delight. “Absolutely beautiful, mon Victoire.” 

“Indeed,” agreed Mr. Ollivander. “A marvelous display, Miss Weasley.” With practiced deftness, he extracted the wand from her loose grip and nestled it back into its unassuming, black container. He turned on his heels, pacing the length of his shop as he spoke, eyes twinkling with absent fanaticism. “Wands of Elm are drawn to people who possess a quiet confidence and an air of refined competence-- this is what led me to suspect that Elm may be the wand wood for you, Miss Weasley.” He winked at her, beaming broadly at the fetching blush the gesture elicited. “Mishaps will be few and far between with this one thanks to the compounded characteristics of its core and wand wood. And although unicorn hair is not notable for its immense and overwhelming power when bonded with wand-quality wood, it does produce the most consistent, purest spell work. I do not doubt that you will perform superior charms with this elegant instrument. Even the most advanced and complex enchantments will be achieved with ease. Mind you,” he added, nodding at the strengthening luminous aura about the young part-veela girl, “they tend to favor witches and wizards with a certain…innate grace and evocative, yet subtle, magnetism-- a presence, if you will. I have a feeling you fit the bill,” he chuckled, wagging his grey brows. 

“She gets it from her fazzer,” Fleur gushed as she rummaged through her dainty handbag. 

“Oh, is that so?” Mr. Ollivander murmured, lips pressed in a tight line so as to stifle the grin that threatened to break across his leathery face. “I never noticed that about Bill.” 

“Merci beau coup, Monsieur.” Fleur bestowed upon him her most bewitching smile as she laid seven galleons in his cupped hands. 

“Merci, Madame.” Mr. Ollivander graciously bowed his head, proceeding Fleur and her fleet-footed daughter as they strode purposefully toward the shop’s door. 

“Grab zee umbrella, will you?” Fleur asked. “We are on our way, Monsieur. Au revolr.” 

“Au revolr, Mister Ollivander.” Victoire glanced back over slim shoulder one last time and met the old man’s tired eyes. “I'm glad we came to visit you today, Monsieur.” 

“As am I, Victoire. As am I.” Palms pressed to the cool metal frame, Mr. Ollivander studied the mother and daughter from the doorway. 

“Au revolr.” 

Mr. Ollivander startled at the gentle, feather-soft voice that seemed to come from just behind him. “Good heavens!” 

“We’ll be seeing one another again quite soon, sir.” His voice was level, a thread of irrefutable certainty clear in his tone. 

Oh, “Louis,” Mr. Ollivander clutched at his pounding heart. “I forgot you were here, my boy. My apologies.”

Louis smiled a secretive smile and patted the old man’s forearm. “That’s all right, sir. I’m quite used to it.” After taking in the sympathetic crinkle to Mr. Ollivander’s grey eyes, he added in a conspiratorial tone, “Maman says it's because I am so quiet and so very small.” 

“Ah!” was all the bemused Wanamaker could manage. 

“Anyway, good day, sir.” White umbrella trailing along behind him, Louis, too, exited the shop, waving animatedly as he trailed behind his mother and sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy October, everyone. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy what you've read here. 
> 
> This chapter was more challenging for me to write for many reasons: for one, Fleur's accent regularly gave me pause whilst I was writing; second, now that I've got a sort of system going with these short stories, I tend to use the same words too often-which is an issue I'm working on, I promise; third, I expect more from myself these days, so I'm second-guessing myself more with each draft. That being said, I'm thrilled to have this chapter out into the world. It isn't perfect by any means, but it is close to what I envisioned. 
> 
> Please leave me reviews and send this to other Potterheads. I am interested to know your impression of the French Weasleys. 
> 
> I want to start publishing other short stories starring my interpretations of the Next Gen, so if you like what I do here, let me know with a comment and I'll post those ASAP. 
> 
> Thank you again. 
> 
>  
> 
> Until next time!


	4. Chapter  Four: Dominique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dominique Weasley is matched with her wand.

Chapter Four: Dominique  
August, 2013

Garrick Ollivander, ‘Britain’s Most Renowned Wand Maker’—as asserted by the Daily Prophet—was repairing a toppled display when Victoire Weasley, accompanied by her father and an unfamiliar red-haired girl, entered his shop. 

Most renowned, indeed. 

True, he was a highly skilled craftsman. One had ought to be after over half a century of diligent study and dedication to the noble art of wand-making. But to declare him the most talented in all of Britain? Not to mention the other mistruths printed alongside that nonsense. Mr. Ollivander’s lips pursed in disapproval. The old man shook his head, dismissing the ridiculous article without another thought. 

Rising to his feet with a murmured groan, the elderly wandmaker waved to the trio. “Welcome, welcome. Nice to see you, Bill, Victoire.” 

“Good afternoon, Monsieur. I hope you are well.” Victoire Weasley’s pale hair caught the sunlight pouring in from the grimy front windows, casting her face in a faint angelic glow. 

“I am well, my dear.” He beamed jovially. “And how may I help you today?” Mr. Ollivander turned to the only other adult in his shop, his tufty brows raised. 

Lanky and long-haired, Bill Weasley was not the average husband and father of three. Weathered leather jacket and clunky boots worn proudly and the puckered scar that stretched across one half of his face in full view, Bill Weasley resembled a battle-hardened warrior more than he did a high-ranking official of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. 

“We’re after a wand, as I’m sure you guessed.” Bill gestured to the younger of the two girls. “It’s Dominique’s turn.” Rolling her dark blue eyes, Dominique gave her father a playful shove. 

“Ah, how wonderful.” Mr. Ollivander turned to Dominique, cordial smile in place. “It seems like only yesterday when I first met your charming sister. Will you be in Ravenclaw as well, I wonder.” 

 

Victoire gave a rather unladylike snort. “Unlikely.” She plucked a silvery-blonde lock of hair from her shoulder, twisting the curling strand between two fingers, beaming at how it captured in the light. 

Scowling, Dominique grumbled “If that old hat tries to place me in Ravenclaw I’m leaving.” In a much louder, much firmer voice she added “can I have my wand now?” 

“Minnie,” hissed Victoire, her luminous blue eyes narrowing on her younger sister’s folded arms and tight fists, “do not be rude!” 

But Mr. Ollivander raised a hand, forestalling the impending reprimand in its tracks. “Dominique is quite right. Let us get on with things, shall we? If you would,” he motioned for Dominique to join him. A snap of his bony fingers and the whiplike length of measuring tape lifted itself from the counter and set to work. “Excellent, excellent,” murmured Garrick Ollivander, his fingertips tapping the end of his chin thoughtfully. “I think I have just the one for you.” 

“Not Elm I hope,” Dominique muttered. Victoire’s eyelids pressed shut for a long, pained moment as she took in three long, calming breaths. 

“Not elm.” With a flick of his wand Mr. Ollivander summoned a rectangular box from one of the highest and dustiest shelves. “Ebony.” And he removed from the box a handsome wand of gleaming night-black wood. 

“Ebony?” Bill’s ginger brows drew together. “Are you sure, Ollivander? Isn’t ebony popular amongst—?”

“Dark wizards?” Mr. Ollivander finished the question for him. “Why, yes.” Upon observing Dominique’s indignant glare and Victoire’s open-mouthed shock, he was quick to dispel their assumptions, his hands extended to halt their protestations. “Death Eaters and Order members alike have found themselves bonded to such a wand. Do not be alarmed by this wood’s notorious reputation, my friends. A wand of ebony will bend to its master’s inclinations—be them perverse or righteous.” He winked at Dominique and tilted the ebony wand’s handle in her direction. “Give it a whirl and see for yourself.” 

 

Face still flushed with defiant anger, Dominique approached the counter and wordlessly accepted the wand held out to her. “It’s lovely,” she said in begrudging awe. 

 

“Ooh, what a pretty thing!” Victoire rested her chin on Dominique’s shoulder in order to get a view of the cylindrical item in her sister’s hand. Dominique pushed her older sister away with a shrug and lifted the wand up to the light, her eyes squinting at the artful design spanning it. 

 

Evocative of an archer’s arrow, a single feather was expertly inked onto the wand’s curved handle, the precise point of a triangular arrowhead painstakingly carved at its tip. Neatly Expressed in the same liquid Mercury hue outlining the feather stretched the eight phases of the lunar cycle, the expanse of which occupied most of the wand’s length. Reimagined in daring slashes and elegant loops, each representation of the moon bore arcane runes and other primordial symbols. Dominique traced each phase with a finger, absently memorizing each swirl and angle. The whole effect was enchanting and otherworldly. The ebony wand embodied the fathomless darkness and chaotic majesty of the night sky. 

it embodied Dominique. 

 

No warning, not a battle cry nor a shifting of her weight from foot to foot warned the occupants Ollivander’s shop of what transpired next. All lazy grace and wide blue eyes, Dominique lifted her left arm and, with a swift flick of her wrist, shot a stream of blazing golden fire directly at her sister. Shrieking, Victoire stumbled back, her hands flung over her head. A hoarse shout rising in his throat, Bill Weasley threw himself at his eldest daughter though his face, now white and blank, was aimed at Dominique. 

 

“That was for earlier,” Dominique said, a satisfied half-smirk twisting her lips. “I’m keeping it,” announced Dominique to a slack-jawed Ollivander. 

 

“I dare say so,” he rasped in reply, his hands shaking slightly as he offered her the rectangular box. 

“You could have hurt her,” growled Bill, straightening to his feet. “What were you thinking, Dom?” 

 

Dominique shrugged. “She started it. And anyway I wasn’t trying to hurt her, Dad.” Jabbing a thumb at her older sister, Dominique twirled the end of her own fiery red braid. “Only to disfigure her.”

 

Victoire gaped. “Excuse me?” As if in reply Dominique shook the length of her braid. It flopped about against her shoulder like a fish fresh off a fishermen’s line. Victoire glanced at her own hair, unbound and shining, and let out a horrified scream. 

 

“Really, Dom?” Bill sighed, exasperated. Thin ribbons of smoke trailed from the singed ends of Victoire’s hair. 

“It’s only hair.” Dominique rolled her eyes for the second time in the last half of an hour, a common expression of hers supposed the old wandmaker. Poor Bill Weasley had his hands full with these two.

 

“Ten and a half inches of Ebony and dragon heartstring. Unbending. A potent combination.” Both men shared a knowing look. “A potent combination, you and this wand.” 

“Your mother is not going to be pleased to hear that,” said Bill, wincing. 

“Such wands are at home in the hands of those brave enough to be themselves regardless of any adversity or dissent that may subsequently reign down upon them.” From the corner of his eye Mr. Ollivander caught Victoire’s stiffening posture, discerned the huff of air forced from her flared nostrils. He had enough tact to not comment on how neither sister deigned to so much as acknowledge the other as he had uttered those words.Clearing his Thought roar, he continued, talking to fill the dense silence. “Combative magic and Transfiguration are overwhelmingly preferred by wands of Ebony. And regardless of your inclination, this wand, in being paired with you, will be a force of nature not easily opposed or conquered.” At Bill’s and Victoire’s reproving glances the old wandmaker was quick to add “not that a girl of your years should be overly concerned with dueling. Not yet anyway.” Weary grey eyes met hungry blue ones as he breathed his final pronouncement: “ebony’s true master will make themselves known, if not by their words, then certainly by their deeds.” 

 

Where her older sister’s gaze was transfixing and impassive, Dominique’s was penetrating and shrewd. Those eyes seemed to absorb everything all at once, as if nothing slipped past her scanning, searching sapphire stare. “I think I’d like to see what this wand and I can do together,” Dominique announced. 

 

Sniffing, Victoire turned to her father. “I need to stop at the bookstore before it closes.” 

“Right.” Bill fished in his pocket, pulling free a small red pouch clinking with coins. “ here you are,” he counted out seven galleons and settled them on the scarred countertop. 

 

Almost to herself Dominique said “I can’t wait to show Louis.” She tilted her chin to stare up at her father. “Can we go and see him, Dad?” 

Scrubbing a rough hand across the unblemished half of his face, Bill Weasley exhaled, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know, Dom. We’ll have to see. It might not be a good day for it.” 

At this Dominique balked, her face reddening to a shade comparable to that of muggle fire engines. “But Dad—”

“And how is young Louis?” asked Mr. Ollivander. “I wondered why he hadn’t joined you today.” 

“He is...quite unwell, actually. Another bad bout of illness set in last month. We’re hoping the healers at St. Mungo’s can sort it out.” Victoire and Dominique both stepped forward, each girl taking one of their father’s slack hands. 

“Louis will be fine, Papa.” Victoire squeezed her father’s hand, her smile, though brilliant, appeared forced. 

“I’m sorry to hear he is unwell. I am quite fond of him—of the entire Weasley bunch.” Mr. Ollivander bowed his head. “Please convey my well wishes to him and your wife.” Nodding, Bill tugged his daughters toward the door, his eyes distant and cool. 

 

“Goodbye, Monsieur,” Victoire tossed an airy wave over a shoulder as she was ushered outside by her grimacing father. 

 

Dominique, too, waved, eyes alight with determination. “Thank you for my wand—and the things you said.” 

 

Ollivander brushed away her gratitude with a shake of his head. “No need, dear.” His smile was tired but true. “We mustn’t let anyone else tell us who we are to become. We decide that for ourselves, yes?”   
Braid swinging between her shoulder blades, Dominique nodded vigorously, winked, then darted off after her father and older sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words to convey how sorry I am that this chapter is so late. I meant to have it up weeks ago. Believe it or not ai have all thirteen chapters pre-planned in scrivener. The hard part—specifically outlining and research—is already over; all that's left for me to do is write the darn chapter. Why I am incapable of that I will never understand. Regardless, I am already working on the next chapter. Maybe if we're lucky it'll be up by 2025. 
> 
> In all seriousness, chronic illness is the bane of my existence. I've been loads better and that sucks because it means I'm experiencing one of the low points. I want to be better for you guys—and better for these characters I've adopted and made my own. Encouraging messages and friendly comments wouldn't be amiss right now. 
> 
> In the above chapter we were introduced to a nee character. Dominique Weasley is quite unlike her siblings. What a firecracker, huh? I adore her. She knows her own mind, and I admire that. 
> 
> Her wand is by far my favorite of those I've designed. If any skilled artist has an undeniable urge to visually render any of the wands I've described, feel free. Just be sure to send it to me when you're finished. I'd love to see what you create. 
> 
>  
> 
> I have plans to write similar short stories which would focus on the Next Gen as they cast their first patronuses. Would anyone be interested in reading such stories? I would also be open to writing their sorting ceremonies as well. Along that vein, what houses do you think my versions of the Next Gen belong in after reading these stories? Leave your determinations in a comment for me to se! 
> 
> Again, apologies for my absence. I suck, I know. I'm trying, guys. 
> 
> Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you ever so much for taking a chance on this story. I really do appreciate your time. If you would like to request a particular character to be matched with his or her wand, leave a comment with the pertinent details. I'll get to your request as soon as I am able! I adore the next generation, so if you have any drabbles to recommend, leave them in a comment. I would like to release a few pieces illustrating my head canons pertaining to the next generation. If that would interest you, please be sure to let me know in the comments. Again, thank you so much for reading.  
> Until next time!
> 
> \--Luna.


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